


Statement Regarding An Unusual Volume of Poetry

by leslie_b_flatts



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, This takes place in season 4, when exactly? idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslie_b_flatts/pseuds/leslie_b_flatts
Summary: Statement of Leslie Flatts, regarding an unusual volume of poetry(What if Martin's poetry sort of became a Leitner?)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Statement Regarding An Unusual Volume of Poetry

Statement of Leslie Flatts, given last week, regarding an unusual volume of poetry – a Leitner, I assume, although Basira didn’t tell me if it was when she gave me this statement. Statement begins:

I don’t read much poetry. That doesn’t sound right, everyone I know would disagree with that. What I mean is I don’t buy many books of poetry, and I almost never re-read it. I love poetry but I just have really high, or at least, specific, standards, okay? So I own my one well-loved anthology with the handful of dog-eared favorite poems in it, and sometimes, if I happen to be in a bookstore, I’ll wander into the poetry aisle and see what else is out there. It doesn’t take long. It’s never anything new, even if it’s something I’ve never read before.

So anyway, I was in this little bookstore I’ve been meaning to check out, and they have this little local self-published authors thing, and I’m browsing through that. I’m not nearly as picky with prose, I’ll read anything, and I like the idea of supporting self-published writers. But as I’m flipping through the books on the display, I noticed that one of them was a volume of poetry. Always Raining, by – by Martin K. Blackwood. Of course, I rolled my eyes at myself, because I was sure it wouldn’t be anything I enjoyed – it would probably be some modern drivel by some genius who thought hitting the enter key four times before a random line and writing in all lowercase made it poetry – but I knew I had to open it up anyway.

I flipped to a page at random, and found a poem titled Lost and Found Dog. And yes – it was all in lowercase. I started reading, and it wasn’t bad. The style wasn’t to my exacting taste, but like I said, I know I’m a snob. It was fine. The content was interesting enough – some sort of reflection on a dog the writer found at his workplace, and the feelings he had about finding it, and how it was alone, and he was alone. Honestly, it was kind of relatable, something I wished I’d written, so that I could have read my own feelings like that, but in a sonnet perhaps. It was enough to make me want to give the writer a chance, and I turned the page for one more poem, which turned out to be titled Lo-Fi Charm. 

It was - something about tape recorders. I couldn’t tell you more about it, because as I read, the words seemed to disappear. That’s not it exactly. I could still see them, but I couldn’t hear them. I didn’t even really register them as words. Each word was just a little squiggle, QR code kind of thing, that translated in my mind into a sound. The sound of violin. Slightly scratchy, too-soft, pausing between the notes, beginner’s violin. My violin, the one I hadn’t touched in – too long. Not since my dad, who taught me, passed away.

That pretty much took my breath away. I closed the book, blinked, looked around. No one else around me seemed to have heard it. 

I opened the book again, and turned to a different page. Dead of Night. This one sounded like a stream, like I was wandering through the woods and had found a little stream of water with no name, on no map, maybe never before seen by human eyes.

Obviously, I bought the book. And when I got home with it, I sat down and read it, cover to cover. Each poem brought new sounds. Some familiar, like the violin. Some strange, like the stream.

The familiar ones were all a little bit painful, but in a sort of comforting way. Like prodding at a bruise just to see if it still hurts. They reminded me of people I’d known or places I’d been – people who were gone, and places I could never go back to. 

The strange ones were strange both as in, strange to me, unfamiliar, and just a weird vibe. A lot of them were related to water. Waterfalls, waves, rain. One was unmistakably fog rushing in. I didn’t know that was something you could hear, but I’ve heard it now, and it sounds like a poem called I’m Not Here. These were the opposite of a reminder – these were a call. I’m not sure what towards. I thought maybe to drowning? But not in a panicked way, not water pouring on top of me and something pulling me down. Just – sitting at the bottom of a pool, choosing not to rise, knowing that whatever choice I made, no one was coming to get me.

So, in summary, it was a lot to listen to, and a lot to think about, and interpret, and I got kind of addicted. I started cancelling plans to sit and read the poems. To be honest, I didn’t have a lot of plans to begin with. But there were a few, a few friends I met with on occasion, a few events that I normally went to, that I just skipped in favor of staying home reading. And it felt wonderful. If I was going to go be alone in a crowd, struggling to make conversation with someone I’d only seen for random coffee dates since school ended – why not just feel alone in the comfort of my own home, reading poetry I enjoyed?

I tried to write response poems to Blackwood’s, but mine didn’t sound like anything. I journaled about the different sounds, their variations. The violin in particular kept progressing. It wasn’t a beginner anymore, but more advanced than my violin playing had ever been – but it was fainter than when it started. When I read, I strained to hear it, as it played the soaring notes of songs I loved and hadn’t heard in years.

I wanted to follow it. I kept turning back to Lo-fi Charm, over and over again, listening to the violin retreating further and further away, and wanting with all my heart to be closer, listening to it. But the noise of the outside world seemed to block me. Neighbors I never spoke to speaking to one another in the hall, other people’s cars in the street honking at each other, some kids screaming running down the sidewalk. If all of them would just shut up, would just disappear, then maybe, I could hear the violin the way it was meant to be heard.

The funniest thing is, I don’t know when I actually got my wish. It happened so slowly. But it did happen. I was sitting, reading, which was really listening, and the violin got louder and clearer, playing through some tune I’d never heard before, something melancholy and fluid. I reached the end of Lo-Fi Charm, and turned to the next poem, and there was the stream, clear as day. And I read on, right up to the end of the book. 

And then I got up to stretch. I’d been sitting for a long time. I walked over to my window, and saw – basically, I was alone. The busy street I lived on was abandoned in the middle of the day. And that freaked me out more than any weird poetry book.

I went to look for other people, of course. I’d wanted them to disappear, but not forever. It felt like I had done it to myself, and it was terrifying. I walked for who knows how long. Days, I think. But time wasn’t passing. It was cloudy the whole time, I couldn’t see the sun, but wherever it was, it never set. It never got any brighter, either. 

I avoided opening the book again at first. I thought it had something to do with what had happened. Then I thought, well, maybe it didn’t, Blackwood’s poetry had never done anything to hurt me. It had fascinated me, and comforted me, and I could use a change from the eternal, silent dimness around me. And even if the book really had done it, maybe it could undo it.

So I read Lo-Fi Charm. And there was the violin again, entrancing me. I swayed where I stood. As I read on, it grew fainter. And slower. And hesitant. It wasn’t the practiced musician anymore, but the novice, and it was getting further and further away. 

And then I was just reading words. Something about a tape recorder and how there was something charming about being a little old-fashioned. Nothing that meant anything to me.

I read the rest of the book right there, but the sounds were almost all gone. Sometimes I would hear a snatch of one of them, just enough to make me hope – and then it would disappear.

I kept walking. I had nothing else to do, other than be slowly consumed by the fear that it would never end, and I could do that as well walking as sitting still. And eventually, I found myself here, and saw the first people I’d seen in, I don’t know, years? And so now you have my story and I hope you can do something with it, make some sense of it. I know I can’t.

I’m going to go home. I have nowhere else to go. But I’m not walking back. I’m going to get a cab, and the driver had better feel talkative, because I need to talk to somebody. Anybody. And when I get home, its back to the old poetry anthology. Clearly I don’t need to take chances with new writers again.

Statement ends.

I – I didn’t know Martin had published any of his poetry. 

I wonder how many volumes were printed, and if they are all having this effect on their readers, or only on certain readers already susceptible to the Lonely’s influence. 

I am concerned about what this may mean about his progress in – in allying himself with the Lonely. I should try to talk to him again, soon. I am not ruling out the possibility that this was a deliberate attempt by Peter Lucas to – well, I’m not sure. Make me give up on Martin? The fact that this person found themself in the Institute when the effects of the Lonely ended is suspicious. 

I say when it ended, but that does presuppose that the Lonely didn’t just take them again after they gave their statement. 

Right. Well. They did seem to imply they still had the book with them. It is possible Basira has it. I’m going to go ask her about that. I’ve never been one for poetry, but this – might be worth a read.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was based on a post by @/ashes-in-a-jar on tumblr, and was originally written and posted in response to it. The original post can be found here: https://ashes-in-a-jar.tumblr.com/post/639888294785761280/concept-martins-poetry-book-ends-up-becoming-a . 
> 
> Okay, I don't think that actually works as a link. But if you want to see it you can copy paste. You get the idea. Anyway this is my first time posting on Ao3! I don't write fic much but I do read it fairly often, so it finally just made sense to request an invite and start this account. I can be found on tumblr at makingshortstorieslong


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